


we hear larks

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, gary is back and NOTHING HURTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:11:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>eleven words Jamie Carragher associates with Gary Neville.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we hear larks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> _But hark! joy – joy – strange joy._  
>  _Music showering our upturned list'ning faces._  
>  \- Returning, We Hear Larks (Isaac Rosenberg)  
> 

_liar_

"I'll come back," you say. He scrunches his face up and looks like he doesn't believe it.

 

_sap_

Spain isn't what you think it would be. It's warmer than you remember Becks describing it, and the heat of the tiled floor stings your feet even through the soles of your shoes. Phil doesn't stop talking all the way from the airport. His elbows jab you in the side when he flings out his arms to illustrate a point. You aren't sure which is easier to hide, the smile on your face or the fear in your heart.

The first meeting goes better than you expect it to. Everyone call you Mister like it's the only word in English they know (you suspect Phil took particular delight in making sure everyone got the pronunciation right). You nod and your fingers hurt after shaking so many hands. The last thing you think of is the text message that sits at the bottom of your inbox, reading _how'd it go?_ This job, after all, has no room for sentiment.

At night you pick it up your phone just as you're going to bed, under the covers in your big new empty house. You pull up the message and read it twice, even if it's only three words. Your finger reaches for the _delete_ button. 

**[22:55, 5/12/2016]** **Gary** : all right.

 

 

_loser_

And then comes Barcelona.

You'd never been aware of how quickly a word could change its meaning. Two hours ago it had meant three trophies and Ole's face shining under the lights like he still couldn't understand it. Now you want to go back to when you were thirteen and be told that you were never good enough to make it, to hurt yourself horribly and be chased away from football, football.

At the end of the tunnel you see a long, languid figure, dark blonde hair, a tie that looks like it's unbearably uncomfortable. You could almost smile, if you didn't feel so fragile you could shatter into a million pieces and if your heart wasn't trembling so much you thought it might burst. Of course this would be the game he would watch.

He looks up from who he's talking to and his eyes go soft like water. You feel some of the tension easing out of your shoulders as you walk past him without a word, and he falls in next to you step by step, his shoes clacking against the polished floors the way your trainers don't.

The meeting room is empty. You flick the lights on and fall into the first seat you see, a plush affair on the edge of a long, neverending table. He takes the seat across you and holds his gaze, his hands resting on the glass in front of him. You can see his reflection as you break away from his stare and you watch the way his fingers flick with a curious kind of fascination. Your voice wavers as you say, "well."

He sounds almost amused. "Did you play in that game," he asks, "the 3-1 loss to Villa in '95?"

Your fingers curl tight into fists and you throw your stare at him forcefully, flinching without meaning to. "Or that 5-0 thrashing to Newcastle a year later?" he continues, his eyes blank. Your voice catches in your throat and leaves you for dead. So you weren't asking for a fucking hug, but you weren't expecting this.

"The 1-1 draw against us in '98 that saw you lose the League. The embarrassing 3-0 to Arsenal later in September that year."

"Yeah," you finally manage to spit it out like a challenge, a _so what_ , a _we did win everything with kids_. You're standing up and the fire in your eyes is raging like it had never been extinguished. And then you realise he isn't smirking, or laughing, just watching you. You realise this isn't banter, it's a crutch.

"All of that came before '99, mate," he says, all quiet now.

In your eyes, you see: a crowd singing your song. A ball at your feet. A sky.

 

 

_forgetful_

You don't remember this at all and he's always laughing at you for it. It's late after Monday night the first time he tells you, when you're walking back out to the cars and the sleeves of your jackets rub against each other with no real cause for concern. He tilts his head and says, "d'you know the first time we met?"

"Bet you were a twat," you reply, still trying to get used to this _loving banter_ thing you've got going, even though it's been six months. You miss the days when all you wanted to do was to smash his face in. He grins at you, taking the hit.

"Still am," he says. "Now shut up. You want to hear the story or not?"

Every time he tells the story it's a little different. This first time you've reached your cars, parked (how disgustingly coincidental, you think) side by side. You stand outside for a moment, allowing your eyes to flick over to him, then open his car door and get in.

He waggles his eyebrows. "What, keen on hanky-panky?"

"I haven't heard that phrase since 1983." You roll your eyes. "Hurry up and tell me, Carragher." You're only here because you can't stand him knowing something you don't.

This particular time it goes like this:  

_So it's 1993, right. Yeah, the year you lost the youth cup to fookin'_ Leeds _. Why don't you and your Class of '92 mates ever bring that up, by the way? ...okay, okay. Jesus, I know you played badly at right back but you don't have to be this defensive._

 

_Anyway. You were playing us in the league. I hadn't made it yet, I was cleaning boots and shit, and you were there with your swanky red shirt. And those horrible short shorts. Shut up. I looked way better in them. I remember you because you were yelling at everyone and at the end of the game you ran over to us and pointed at your badge. Yeah, just like '06, you wanker._

 

_I stood up and yelled back at you because I'd never wanted to punch a Manc so much. You ran off into the arms of your teammates - Beckham probably, you disgusting little pricks - and you wouldn't stop holding your badge. Like it meant more to you than anything in the world._

 

_You did something unspeakably rude, Neville, jumping up and down like that, being proud of United like that. I c_ _ame to training the next day without my Graeme Sharp Everton kit. You made me a Liverpool fan._

 

 You don't know if it's true, and not just because you can't remember. He tells you this again and again the next three years, and each particular time something changes - the year, the celebration, the name of the Everton player. He tells it to you after Celta Vigo - gets everything wrong - and you realise it doesn't matter. It's his voice, with all its upwards inflections and harsh corners, that you don't want to forget.

 

 

_pretender_

It happens on international break, which is just as well, because you're home when he rings the doorbell. You open the door half expecting Scholesy and he looks up at just the right moment to catch you with your mask down, circles bruising your eyes.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

"No," you sneer, your Scouse-tosser face back on. He rolls his eyes. You're both very good at pretending, you are.

"I'll just stand on this step, then."

"Yep."

"Like a right twat."

"You _are_ a right twat."

He grins at you, taking the hit. Your mask slips and you step aside and he edges into the house, a hand on your shoulder as he brushes past. Just a touch, so soft it might not have happened at all. The skin under your t-shirt prickles.

The house was exactly as you'd left it, almost like you'd never left at all. Emma and the kids are still in - well. It's more of not being able to say the word than not wanting to. You rub the back of your neck and stand around awkwardly, covering up the fact that you only taste failure.

His eyes wander to the sofa, black and inviting. You catch it and smile despite yourself, realising it was probably the last time he was here. 

**Carragher:** auto complete!  
**Neville:** *mimicks* auto complete!  
_They fall about laughing._

 

"FIFA?" he smirks, holding up the box in his hand. The taste in your mouth changes to summer. Of course you play as United and of course he plays as Liverpool and of course you beat him. (And of course he let you win.)

 

 

_overemotional_

"What d'you mean 'almost as good'?" you scoff on the phone, ignoring the muffled snickering of the lads as they try to figure out who you're calling. It's Wales and you've only just snatched the points, and it's a weight off your chest you haven't felt this light for months, your legs are still sore from the touchline run.

"Can't rate you above me own daughter, can I?" he digs at you. "Besides, there was far too much of that other sixty yarder in it. You see, Gareth, there _are_ ways of winning and celebrating that don't make you look a right dick."

You call him names but your smile is wider than the sun. He calls you names but he's laughing like a loon anyway.

 

 

_shambolic_

**football (ˈfʊtbɔːl/)** , noun

1\. any of various forms of team game involving kicking (and in some cases also handling) a ball, in particular (in the UK) soccer or (in the US).  
2\. the playing of football, especially in a stylish and entertaining way.  
_"Iceland played some impressive football"_

 

You know the assessment is more than fair, especially after you'd promised the nation the world. "You sound tired," you say after the press conference, and what you mean is so does everyone, tired of this Thing that happens every two years, the houses quietly taking down the red and white outside.

"I'm not the only one," he says, and what he means is you.

You haven't been out of a job since you were fourteen. He pauses on the line, wondering how to ask. "What are you gonna do now?"

You smile, rueful. "Dunno. Sit around at home and stare at the fridge. Haven't done that for a while."

"You'll get fat." He sounds genuinely concerned. You don't know whether to laugh or be offended.

"Will not."

"Will too."

"Ye of little faith."

"I think you'll find I have a lot, actually."

With that he breaks the Rule and you breathe in sharper than you should have. He stops talking too and it's just the crackling of the silent line, the slippery glass pressed against your ear.

"Neville," he says finally, the surname a last ditch attempt to salvage himself.

"Yeah?"

"Got an idea that beats an affair with your fridge."

You snort. "Yeah?"

He says it like he's in a library and doesn't want anyone to hear. "Come back."

 

 

_friend_

Of course he's the first person they go to (you try not to think when that changed and they'd stopped asking Scholesy or Giggsy). Phil comes by the office you're still trying to get used to one day, a dumb smile on his face. It's the sort he has when he's thought of something clever or when he knows a secret he's bursting to tell.

"You've got mail," he chirps, brandishing an envelope. He dances out of the office before you can call him a muppet. The handwriting on the cream-coloured paper is cramped and miniscule, just like its writer. _Thought you might like this,_ Scholesy has put on a separate note.

You feel your heart drop a little when you read the clipping. It isn't _bad_ , or anything, but it makes you remember things you'd rather not, like how green eyes can get, or what Scouse accents sound like with too much alcohol.

The fragile, thin paper wrinkles in your hand as you fold it and put it into your pocket. You square your shoulders and straighten your tie. They're waiting for you outside. 

One thing you can be assured is that he will leave no stone unturned to make a success of his role. He’s already proven himself to be wise — it makes sense to start the job on Sunday after Barcelona have visited the Mestalla on Saturday! – but, more than anything, I believe he will be a success.

 

 

_red_

There's another story you like to tell: 

_I'm watching the youtube highlights of our 4-0 win over Liverpool, right? I'm playing pretty decent. I did use to, y'know. Better than that blonde waffle in central defence who let in four goals. Anyway, so I'm watching and half listening to the commentary. And I nearly spit out my tea when they say a Scouse bloke thought "Gary Neville is the most underrated player." Guess whose opinion that was?_

 

"I meant," he insists, "for a United player."

"Yeah, yeah," you shrug, and the love spreads across your face slow as fire.

 

 

_twat_

"Can't believe I'm back to being shown up by a sodding Manc," he complains as he walks with you round the studio. Ed isn't there but it feels no less comforting, the smell of electronics and the easy fit of the suit. And him.

"The _same_ sodding Manc," you remind him, and he theatrically facepalms. "Anyway, it's not like it's difficult or anything to show you up."

You'd thought long and hard about this. Whether it would look like a retreat, a throwing in of towels and the association of your name with giving up. You've never taken the easy option in twenty years and now would be a bad time to start.

He gives you a nudge in the ribs, a quiet smirk on his lips. "Which of those _few_ games d'you want to start with first?"

You elbow him back like it's normal, like you've been doing this all your life, and that's when you know. "I can't believe you called it a _fling_."

"I can't believe you _left me._ "

"You say it like it's a bad thing. It was a right relief not to hear a Scouse accent for six months."

"It was a right relief finding out you could be shit at something, too."

"Better shit at one thing than shit at everything, as you'd know."

"Don't look at me. I'm not the one who signed Fellaini."

"Signed Balotelli, though."

You round the corner and there it is, your desk, the blue computer screen, the pen on the table waiting patiently to be held. Andy from stats walks by and gives you a wave mired in resignation. "Don't yell at me too loudly this time," he calls. The studio lights are bright and inviting, and you're pretty sure someone cleaned your chair.

He slings an arm around your shoulder. You try not to frown at the height difference. "Signed you," he whispers into your ear, then he's collapsing into his chair and leaning back, one hand on the armrest the way he always used to, the look on his face like the time you'd called him out for eighteen months of benchwarming.

You take your seat. The pen melts into your touch. Someone yells about camera angles into your ear, and someone else starts counting down for the cameras. Montage music that you haven't heard in months starts blaring. You're watching him as he leans down, the frown that creases his face intensifying as it always did when he got serious. His voice. His hands. He looks up at you and smiles.

 

 

_home_

because he is, and you are.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I. AM. SO. HAPPY.  
> 1a. Please read their stupid twitter banter [here](https://twitter.com/Carra23/status/762207021055737856) (and ignore the bitch ass comments bc I'm going to kill them all)  
> 2\. notesnotesnotes: I'm not sure if Gaz played all those games we lost, but we definitely lost all those games (sobs)  
> 3\. Jamie's story of how they met is a l i e BUT Gary's story of the underrated player is the [t r u t h](http://carraville.tumblr.com/post/138466289162/just-seen-the-match-programme-today-jamie)  
> 4\. Celta Vigo was Gaz's last match as manager  
> 5\. If anyone even needs to ask where 'auto complete' comes from, r u sure u should be in this ship  
> 6\. dictionary definition: oxford  
> 7\. Carra did call England shambolic after the Iceland game sigh (BUT there was [this](https://twitter.com/Carra23/status/744499435472850944))  
> 8\. Carra _actually wrote that shit_ about Gary and you can read the whole blessed clinginess [here](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-3343392/Jamie-Carragher-Gary-Neville-Valencia-Mondays-won-t-Sky-Sports-MNF-pundit-gone-Valencia-Jamie-Carragher.html)  
>  9\. THIS IS FOR ANON WHO SAID CARRAVILLE WAS DEAD <333  
> 10\. This is also for Julija because throughout these whole sorry six months she always held my hand and talked me thru Everything when I was being a mess about Gary Alexander Neville and she's a Liv! fan! but WELL there you go there are wonderful people in this world <333


End file.
